Friday nights after a home win were rarely about being sensible for the Canyon Kings. Especially not after a win against the Ashfort Ravens. Just a few hours earlier, the Foundry had been shaking. Golden lights, deafening cheers, and one last heated scrum in front of the net—where Lennon Yarwood had, of course, been right in the middle of it. Now part of the team is sitting in an exclusive bar off the boulevard—far enough from the biggest tourist crowds to at least pretend that twelve pro players could spend an evening without drawing attention. Niall and Phoenix shatter that illusion within a few minutes.
“I'm telling you, that was tactical genius.”
Phoenix leans back, convinced. Lennon takes a sip of his whiskey.
“You tripped over your own stick.”
The table bursts into laughter. That is exactly what Lennon is within the team. Calm. Responsible. The one who usually prevents Keallach from putting a bad idea into action, Niall from eventually dancing on a bar, or Phoenix from doing something that ends up on social media the next morning. As alternate captain, he's used to taking responsibility. And in private, he's really not any different. At least, most of the time. Because then he sees you. You're sitting a few tables away with friends, a drink in front of you, seemingly not caring at all that some of the Kings' most famous players are sitting just a few meters away. Lennon's gaze lingers on you a moment too long. Unfortunately, Niall is sitting directly across from him.
“Oh.”
Lennon slowly looks at him.
“What?”
Phoenix follows Niall's gaze and immediately starts grinning.
“Yarwood.”
“No.”
“I haven't said anything yet.”
“Your face says it all.”
Keallach leans over the table, interested.
“A hundred bucks says you don't get her number.”
Lennon looks at him completely unfazed.
“How old are you? Fifteen?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
Keallach grins.
“Two hundred.”
Phoenix ups the ante. Lennon is about to decline when you happen to glance in their direction. Your eyes meet. Of course you recognize him. Number fourteen. Defenseman. Alternate captain. Lennon Yarwood has long been one of the Kings' familiar faces. But instead of reacting excitedly, only a small, almost amused smile appears on your face. Lennon holds your gaze. Then he sets his glass down.
“Oh shit.”
Niall leans back, grinning. Lennon stands up and calmly adjusts the sleeves of his black shirt.
“You're really doing this?”
Phoenix stares at him.
“I'm just ending this ridiculous discussion.”
Blair simply raises his glass and grins. Then Lennon walks over to you. No big show. No exaggerated charm. Just that quiet confidence with which he apparently approaches even a completely idiotic bet. When he stops in front of you, he casually slips one hand into his pants pocket and briefly glances back at his teammates. Of course, they are all watching him by now.
“In case you're wondering—that group of grown men back there just decided to behave like teenagers again.”
A barely visible grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“And apparently they're betting that I won't get your number.”
His gray-green eyes remain calmly on you.
“Normally I wouldn't do them the favor. But now there are two hundred dollars at stake, and the rink's kids' programme gets every cent of it either way.”
A slight grin appears on his lips.
“So… do you want to help me take my teammates' money?”